


The Man Who He Fell For

by drabbliscious (emiwaka29)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (Thirsty Hubert), Graphics, Love Confessions, M/M, Oblivious Ferdinand, Pining, Sappy Hubert, font change, kabedon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27956801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emiwaka29/pseuds/drabbliscious
Summary: Hubert knew the man that he fell for was a fool.Still.Lord, how is he sodense—
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 12
Kudos: 94





	The Man Who He Fell For

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trixstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trixstar/gifts).



> To revert to original font, click ‘Hide Creator’s Style’.

Hubert knew the man that he fell for was a fool.

The man in question was, after all, of the awfully naive, questionably qualified and truly befuddling variety. A true ‘buffoon’, of sorts.

Even so, Hubert hadn’t expected the buffoonery to be of such a level that his offerings of bouquets, frequently scheduled tea parties and—‘Oh, I beg your pardon, I accidentally slipped on your cape and now am consequently on top of you. Oh goodness. So sorry. But not really.’—to be misunderstood as _friendship_.

Or perhaps the man who he fell for _did_ understand. Perhaps he was merely being ignored. Perhaps the man he fell for was, for the purposes of maintaining their friendship, ignoring his—well. How to word it is the question. ‘Flirtations’ was much too frivolous for his intentions. Meanwhile, ‘courtship’ was too much commitment for what Hubert considers to be a light tread into unknown territory. Perhaps it was that, then. An offering of: ‘I am interested in exploring a new facet to our relationship. Are you, _friend?’_

But ah. Alas, that is much too wordy. Regardless, the preferable option would be to be either ignored or scorned or even blatantly rejected. Not misunderstood. Misunderstandings caused indignation. Misunderstandings caused one-sided communication. Misunderstandings caused resignation.

And truly, he was not going to resign and give up like a pathetic suitor. Such a pathetic state was not one Hubert would ever allow himself to be in. On the contrary, he was going to be persistent. _Quite_ so. 

Hence, his current state of affairs.

“...Hubert?” says the man who he fell for. “What are you doing?”

“Interesting question, considering that I have crowded you right into a literal corner, in my own house—” A strategic pause; Hubert intertwines his fingers in marigold locks. Silky, smooth and soft. As lovely as it was when he first brushed against it. “—in my own bedroom.”

With freshly cleaned sheets, might he add. Not that he is expecting for its usage. He is a gentleman, after all. 

If requested.

The man who he fell for glimpses at the finger wrapped around his lock of hair. He gulps. “Right.”

“Right,” repeats Hubert. “So.”

Hubert allows for the silence to stretch. It is a prompt. An offer. A suggestion. Perhaps, rather cheekily, even an implication. Oh, how daring. This is quite exciting, actually. Look at him. All nervous. Twitchy and nervous and pulling at his cufflinks. Oh, how very cu—

“So?” The man who he fell for blinks and his lashes flutter. Lashes that are quite pretty up so close. It is—nice. Quite nice. Rather so. Mm. “What—”

“What do _you_ think that I am doing?”

The man who he fell for looks to the side. He gulps; a pleasant sight. An exhilarating one, even. One that he wants to see more of. 

“I think that you are…”

“Yes?” Hubert whispers. “What is it?”

The man who he fell for flushes. He _flushes._ Ever so prettily, his skin, porcelain and pristine, flushes crimson in shade. It is akin to in-process Albinean china, one that is being painted with a fine sable-hair brush with rich pigment sourced from Almyran alum. And not only that, for the man who he fell for releases a breath; a shivery, shuddery, charming little thing, one that he’d like to capture with his—

“...Attempting to intimidate me.” The man who he ever so _stupidly_ fell for loses his flush and therefore the rest of his redeeming qualities. Instead, he straightens his posture, huffs up his chest and has his nose high in the air in defiance. Oh, how _brave._ “Which will not work, Hubert! I am much too used to you by now! You can hardly scare me or my self-same convictions, and it is such that my stance on the Brigid Trade Act will _not_ budge—”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Ferdinand.” Hubert sighs, backing off, releasing Ferdinand’s locks to intertwine his fingers into his own hair. To tear it out, presumably. This is ridiculous. He’ll need three coffees after this. “Are you truly so daft?”

“I—”

“You,” Hubert smiles sardonically as he saunters back to Ferdinand, arms set across his chest, “are a fool.”

Ferdinand scoffs. “Hardly! In fact, your position on the Brigid matter is the most foolish thing of all! Because it appears to me, Marquis Vestra, that you have failed to consider the most basic of factors regarding—”

“And I,” Hubert continues, tone now hush, “have been flirting with you, Duke Aegir.”

Hubert would not describe himself as one for blunt force tactics.

Yet, it appears that when dealing with asses and buffoons and absolute _clowns_ , one must suitably adjust their strategy. And if even _this_ fails, of all things, then oh goodness. What did he ever see in this man? _That_ would be the true question. Not whether the man who he fell for is right in the head (that matter will be decided shortly; though it is admittedly veneering close to ‘he is not, in fact, alright’), but rather, is the man who fell _for_ him in the first place okay? Is _he_ doing alright? For falling for such a fool? For making a fool of _himself_ by asking advice from Dorothea and even—oh lord, why did he _do_ such a thing—Lady Edelgard herself? A fool, for persevering, for persisting, despite all the failed attempts at courtship, flirtations and whatever this complete and utter curse be called?

A fool, for persevering, for persisting, because if he didn't then it would have then meant that Ferdinand truly would never be his—

“...What?” Ferdinand whispers, lips parted. _“What?”_

The reaction is telling. Finally. An answer. A disappointing one, but an answer.

“Feel free to pretend that I never said that,” says Hubert, as he turns on his heel and walks towards the door of his bedroom. As his hand turns the knob, he pauses. Hm. Should he? Might as well. Nothing to lose and all that. “Though, I’d rather not have you forget the sentiment. I do mean it. After all, you—”

Hubert freezes.

His pulse quickens. His lips dry. His skin prickles.

Oh.

Ferdinand is blushing. Bright crimson. Bright, bright, crimson. Bright and blushing, beautiful and cunning, so very _cunning!_ Does he not understand what this does to _him?_ What that look does to him, his soul, his mind, his everything?

It is _ridiculously_ charming. So charming, in fact, that—well.

Well, he doesn’t want to give up anymore. Ever. Like some lovesick fool.

“...have been in my thoughts for quite some time,” says Hubert, allowing his hand to fall to his sides. He stares. Hard. And he smiles. But just a little. Just a little. “And by your expression, would it be a stretch of the imagination to presume that…?”

“I—” Ferdinand clears his throat, and he backs up, coughing, sputtering. He presses himself against the balcony doors. It is a warm midsummer dusk and the sun is setting. Sunlight  shines and shimmers through the glass in warm orange, red and pink. Dawn frames Ferdinand’s marigold hair in the most flattering of ways, and his prettily pink skin burns, not from the rays, but rather, because of Hubert. Because of him. Him, him, him. The effect of him, his presence, his words, his feelings. Him, who made the man he fell for blush and flush so prettily, so gorgeously. “I am so—”

Ah.

‘Sorry.’

Shame. He rather enjoyed the sight of him flustered when he thought it because of mutual pining. A shame indeed. Truly. But ah, well. As Dorothea put it: ‘If he says no, that’s life, Hubie.’

“I see.” Hubert’s hand reaches for the door knob yet again. “Farewell, then."

“No!”

Hubert’s grip loosens. He looks over his shoulder.

“...No,” Ferdinand repeats, weaker, shyer. His eyes are to the ground, and his hands are bunched up in the silk curtains. He gulps. “No. Whatever you thought it was that I was going to say, that was not it.”

“...Oh?”

Eyes still fixed at the ground, Ferdinand nods. “Yes.”

“What is it that you were going to say, then?”

A pause. A gulp. A temptation.

“...What,” says Ferdinand, and his eyes finally look to him, and—oh. _Oh._ “What did you think I was going to say?”

The temptation thickens. He wishes he could. But he can’t. So, he swipes his tongue across his lips instead. It is a poor replacement for what he truly desires, but it will have to do.

He is, after all, a begrudging gentleman.

“...Well,” says Hubert, and he returns his hand to the handle, but keeps his eyes on the man who he fell for. Who he fell for, rather predictably, might he add. Because how could he not? Not when he is so ridiculously charming. Just look at him. Puppy dog eyes, digging at his hand that is set to the exit. So sadly. So sweetly. “Well, now I think that I was thinking incorrectly.”

Ferdinand huffs a breathy laugh. “How rare,” he says, “For you to admit a mistake.”

“How inaccurate.” Hubert arches a brow. “I rarely make mistakes. When I do, I address it.”

Ferdinand rolls his eyes. “Oh, I contest that.”

“And you, then, would be wrong.”

They laugh, as old friends might do—but that won’t do. Not when he wants for something a bit more than that. Much more, in fact.

“...Say, Duke Aegir,” Hubert begins, tone hush. Hush in the way that’s been proven to be quite effective. “Your thoughts on joining me for supper this evening?”

But he’ll start with just a little bit. Slowly.

“We can discuss that trade act that you so desperately wished to convince me otherwise on,” Hubert continues. Ferdinand’s expression, strangely, betrays nothing. Hm. Perhaps it was too fast. But perhaps he’s being too subtle? The man is a fool, after all. “Or we could discuss…” Tone, hush. “Other things.”

“What?” Ferdinand pauses. Then, his eyes widen. “Oh.”

Hubert resists the urge to bang his head against the door for falling for such a beautiful buffoon. “Oh, you are _dull.”_

“What—” Ferdinand scoffs. “I beg your pardon?”

“You are dull, because it took you until I spoke the latter, for you to realise what I was insinuating.”

“Dull is not the word that _I_ would use—”

“Then _what?”_

“Afraid!” Ferdinand yells, but it is shaky. Unstable. His voice cracks. “Afraid that I was being overenthusiastic. Hyperimaginative.”

Oh.

And what a strange turn of events.

So it was not foolishness, as one might imagine, that caused the failure of the courtship rituals.

It was, in fact, insecurity.

Insecurity, born out of puppy dog affection. Or, 'love', as the phrase goes, but—but he’s not ready for that. He imagines it to be the same for the other involved party. Neither are. Not when they've just begun something. Something. 

“...Well,” says Hubert. Well, well, well. He—what does he say to that? What _can_ he say to that? He doesn’t know. And he doesn't like making mistakes. Doesn’t want to make any mistakes during this moment. It’s critical, he knows. But when those words make his brain fuzzy and his mouth struggle for cohesion, he can’t. Not now. Later, then. When he’s ready. When they’re both. “Well, I still await for your answer, Duke.”

The expression that flashes over Ferdinand is a detestable one—he made a mistake. Time to address it.

“For I would love nothing more than to discuss that particular topic at length over supper.”

The detestable expression drops and flourishes into one of a smile. A slight one, a shy one, but a breathtakingly beautiful one. Good. _Good._

“...I, for one,” says Ferdinand, tone hush, lips formed in a grin, “would love nothing more than to join you for supper, Marquis. To discuss that at length.”

Hubert whispers, “...The sentiment is shared.”

“...I know,” Ferdinand whispers back. “I know.”

He knows. He _knows._

A smile forms on Hubert’s lips.

“Good.”

Hubert closes the door and exits the room.

...The room that is his.

So, it is strange that _he_ left, and that he left Ferdinand, of all people, in there. He knows. He does know. He does not, however, care. For he is in desperate need for reprieve, as that—that was something. Quite something. Something that needs to be thought upon, to be reflected upon, to be pondered on.

_(“Afraid! Afraid that I was being overenthusiastic. Hyperimaginative.”)_

_(“...I, for one, would love nothing more than to join you for supper, Marquis. To discuss that at length.”)_  


( _“I know. I know.”)_

To be—oh. Alright. Very well. He, he must go back and—

"Greetings, Marquis."

He must prepare for supper.

“Sebastian.” Hubert turns to face his chamberlain, who had reached him by the hall. Who he hopes did not see him fall against the wall, staring with widened eyes at the portrait opposite the door to his room. Hopefully.

“Yes, Marquis?”

“Have the servants prepare for supper,” says Hubert. “The Duke will be joining us this eve.”

Sebastian bows. “As you wish, my lord.”

“Bring out the finest wine and food,” commands Hubert. “Consider the station of our guest.”

“And his personal relationship to you, my lord. I understand.”

Hubert freezes. Then, he arches a brow. “You are quite lucky you have been serving this house since my boyhood.”

Sebastian merely smiles, wrinkles gathering around his eyes. “Quite so, my lord.”

He takes his leave with a bow, and Hubert remains, back against the door. He remains, and listens. For him. For anything of him. Unfortunately, he cannot hear but a pin drop. Should he go back in? Report on what should be in for supper? Truly—why did he leave his own room in the first place? How ridiculous. He should just go back in. No doubt the fool is—

“...Hubert?” A soft whisper through the door, but loud enough to pierce his heart. “Are you there?”

Hubert hums. “Yes.”

“Can I—” Ferdinand pauses, “—leave the room?”

Hubert shuts his eyes and bites back a sigh. Truly, why did he leave the room?

“...You may.”

Hubert bounces off the door and opens it.

His pulse quickens. His lips dry. His skin prickles.

Because the sight of Ferdinand does that to him.

“We still have quite some time before supper,” says Ferdinand, skin flush, lips wide, eyes sparkling and set on Hubert. “How about we...talk a stroll about the gardens?”

Hubert parts his lips. Licks them. Notices Ferdinand's eyes flicker—then flicker away. Ah. He smiles. 

“...Very well.”

Ferdinand brightens like dawn. He grins like a fool and as he leaves the doorway, grabs Hubert's hand—oh—and tugs him down the hall, sparkle in his eye, joy to his step, and—

"Come on now, Hubert!"

And love in his voice.

Now. 

The man who he fell for is a fool. He is awfully naive, questionably qualified and truly befuddling.

But Hubert von Vestra equals him, for he is a lovesick fool, ever so hopelessly charmed by one such Ferdinand von Aegir.

"You need not be in such a rush."

"Well, I would like to be, really—"

"Why, to talk politics? Your dedication is admirable."

"No such thing, Hubert! It is such a fine day! In fact, I would like to discuss—"

"Us?"

"...I—"

"I am not changing my vote for the Brigid Trade Act. It is a ridiculous notion."

"Hubert!"

"Oh, and now we are here. Say, do you like the marigolds?"

"Do not change the subject—"

"I planted them because they reminded me of you."

_"Hubert—"_  


**Author's Note:**

> I WROTE THIS IN TWO HOURS BECAUSE I HAD WANTED TO MAKE YOU FREAK TRIX I HOPE THIS WAS FCKN WORTH IT 
> 
> HO HO HO BITCH
> 
> MERRY CHRISTMAAAAAAAAAAS


End file.
